


Carmen Cygni

by DoilySpider



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sexual Guilt, Suicide mention, Torture, Vaginal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoilySpider/pseuds/DoilySpider
Summary: Aziraphale couldn't help but feel like a bad angel for all his desires. For the parts of himself he could not seem to shake. How could he not, when his desire seemed to be a destructive force. It only seemed to be a matter of time before the universe punished him for it.





	1. I: Illusions of Purity

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags and read safely! Lots of content warnings on this one! Thank you.
> 
> A/N: Hey squad. Gonna get real vulnerable putting this one up. We're going to go to some dark places, so brace yourself. Got some stuff my close personal friend the Principality Aziraphale is helping me through. This one is actually a bit of a rebuild of something I once wrote part of over a decade ago and then quit. Now I intend to see it through. It's rewarding to come back to an old idea and give it new life, isn't it? Especially when the version of it you make now benefits from better ideas and greater experience.

Once, Crowley told Aziraphale that he didn’t think he could do the wrong thing. Aziraphale wished he believed that. Sometimes he felt very bad. Very bad indeed. 

He laid his faith in God, of course, and in Her Ineffable Plan. He talked the talk and he walked, as best as he could manage, the walk, in spite of some pities and cares he feared were misplaced, in spite of some doubts he wrestled to silence every day over the march of time. She had made him, perfect and whole, just as he was, exactly for this purpose, to serve Her and to watch the world for Her, and to watch its people, made in Her image.

There were many things angels were for. And there were many things, Aziraphale was repeatedly reminded, that they were not for. And there was a war that raged inside him over it.

He loved with all the vastness that an angel could love. Sometimes he feared he had overdone it. Especially after he met the demon Crowley, and his heart clung to all the traces of the angelic he still found left in the serpent. In spite of everything he always looked forward to seeing his adversary. But it was not the only place his love had tested him.

Gender, as a universal truth, is a construct. But this is especially so for angels and their fallen kin, for whom gender is largely predicated on wild guesswork and, sometimes, a desire to approximate and relate to humankind. Aziraphale was a man of some description or another, that much he had settled on. He also found himself rather fond of other men in general too. At first he thought perhaps it was just a satisfaction with the self-expression he settled on. But oh, how his love spilled out in inconvenient ways. 

His name was Chen. Ever since Aziraphale had come to town he’d honestly been flattered by all the attention, though he’d tried to remain modest. Surely everyone was just enamoured of the arrival of angels of the Lord. One of the locals treated him to a lovely home cooked meal with his family. Everyone seemed to be having a great time. Honestly he wasn’t sure what they were meant to be looking for here anymore, he hadn’t had a problem since arriving. Now, having wandered off alone, he found himself with this young man, Chen. A local blacksmith. And he called Aziraphale beautiful in a way that made his heart race. He definitely didn’t mean that just because Aziraphale was an angel. 

Aziraphale found the young man quite beautiful too, his sunkissed tan skin and strong arms, the rough hands of a working man, but not unkind when they traced Aziraphale’s jawline, and Chen asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, breathless, tracing his fingers along Chen’s bare shoulder, lost in the movement of his muscles. He couldn’t help himself. He’d been so curious, and he’d tried so many of the other little pleasures of living as a human. This, this was new, and it was exciting. “I’ll have to ready myself for you. My kind, we need to, um… well we need to manifest, you see, our sex. And I ah, well, what would you… what are you expecting to…”

“Slip into whatever makes you comfortable, my divine beauty,” said Chen, and leaned in to kiss Aziraphale’s neck.

Gasping, Aziraphale tipped his head to give him better access. There was a new warmth spreading through his body, and a not-unpleasant tightness in the base of his belly. He parted his legs, ever so slightly, and tried to focus. 

When the room, dark with night, became illuminated, Aziraphale almost didn’t notice at first, preoccupied as he was with his partner pushing his robes off of his shoulders. It wasn’t until Chen looked up and whispered, sharply, “What--?”

And he was gone. The instant his eyes bore witness to the Lord’s holy flame, he was petrified, crumbling and white before Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale screamed, both hands clasped to his mouth in horror, his robes still hanging loose around him.

That was how Sandalphon found him when he barged in, beaming proudly. “Ah!” he said. “See I’ve saved your purity just in time. Not to worry, he won’t get to sully you now. Take up your sword and join me, won’t you?” He smirked, and turned on his heel to continue raining destruction.

Aziraphale wiped at his eyes and took a moment to steady himself, before heading to see that the kind family who had treated them to dinner made it out of the city alive.

It was thousands of years before he tried anything of the sort again. The dawn of a new age in fact. He was out on the rooftop of the place he was currently calling home, admiring the stars, when the Archangel Gabriel alighted next to him. Aziraphale always admired Gabriel, he seemed so sure of himself and sure of the Great Plan, and Aziraphale tried to emulate that certainty. He also, of course, made him terribly nervous, he had such high standards and high expectations. So of course Aziraphale made a show of squaring his shoulders and drawing himself up to stand. “Gabriel,” he said fondly, folding his hands together. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gabriel was staring out over the horizon. His wings were out, a rare sight. “It is done,” he breathed. “I have borne the news to Mary. God’s child has been conceived upon the Earth.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, that is wonderful.” He knew what it all meant, of course. For the future of humanity, and God’s love for them. In fact, he was a bit jealous of Gabriel that he was the one to deliver the message. But of course it was him, right? He was one of God’s most loyal and capable servants. And now here he was, standing beside Aziraphale, with a rare sense of wonder in his brilliant indigo eyes. He was so tall and poised, effortlessly composed, and ever full of confidence.

Even Aziraphale didn’t realize what he was doing before he was doing it. He was simply awash in celebratory elation and admiration for his superior. Craned in, his own wings arched out to brush wingtip to wingtip. His lips moved to ghost across Gabriel’s. But he froze. He froze because Gabriel stood frozen. And Aziraphale remembered himself in that moment, a flush rising to his cheeks.

“What are you doing, Aziraphale?” Gabriel spoke into his mouth, unmoved. 

Aziraphale withdrew, bashful and apologetic, wringing his hands. “So sorry, caught up in the--”

“Lust,” Gabriel went on, stalk still and staring Aziraphale down, “is a sin. One of the big ones, actually, in case you had forgotten.” 

“No, I--”

“Did you mean to visit lust upon my divine form, Aziraphale?” Gabriel tipped his head, smiling. For the first time Aziraphale saw that smile for what it really was. Hollow, a cavern where joy should be and only echoes remained.

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, no words coming. What defense did he have? Gabriel stepped forward, just one step, and Aziraphale staggered back in turn. His heel caught the edge of the roof, and he needed to flutter his wings a moment to keep balance.

“You know, tonight,” said Gabriel, “just for tonight, I am so full of God’s love, I’ll let it pass.” He reached to clap a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and it almost stung. “I forgive you, Aziraphale. A moment of foolishness on this night of joy. It could get the best of any of us. I’m sure you’re just going through a phase.”

Aziraphale was nodding and every single shift of his head hurt. “Y-yes… yes, I--”

“You won’t do that again, will you?” said Gabriel, holding Aziraphale’s shoulder tight. “I would hate to see you…” He glanced down the edge of the roof they were standing on. Over the edge and down, down, down to the ground. Down further than that. Down.

Aziraphale was shaking now, cowering, tears starting to fall and his wings folded in tight. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Gabriel, I’m sorry, please.”

Gabriel just smiled that vacant smile and relinquished Aziraphale, stepping back. “All is forgiven,” he said.

In the flood of guilt and relief that came all at once, Aziraphale barely caught himself from falling to the ground. He folded to his knees on the roof tile instead, wings coiled around himself protectively. He sobbed.

“Have a blessed night, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel. He spread his wings wide and took flight, leaving Aziraphale below.

The very next night, the demon Crowley caught up with Aziraphale, as he always managed to do. He found him in a tavern. “So I hear your side’s been up to--” But his words fell short when he saw Aziraphale’s red-rimmed eyes. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Don’t then.” Crowley set down enough coin to pay for both Aziraphale’s drink and one for himself, then pulled up a stool beside him. “Tell me about anything else.”

And Aziraphale hated how grateful he was for the demon’s company.

Over the ages, Aziraphale did his best to swallow down his vice. It almost felt like some of the others were working overtime to compensate: the gluttony, the envy, the pride. But none of them felt near so ugly. Especially when the men who reminded him most of himself found themselves shoved more and more to the fringes of society. It was damnably familiar. Not that they would be damned for it of course, oh no, he had no idea where humanity had gotten that ridiculous idea. But it was different for Aziraphale. His sin was tangibly, demonstrably wicked.

Yet he found himself gravitated towards their groups, their societies, their secret clubs. He took up dance in the late 19th century. There was a man there, Mr. Lawrence. He had this light-footed and sad-eyed way about him that was endearing. And his lips were warm and soft. They kissed deeply and explored the shape of each other’s bodies in a dim back room of the hall on a number of occasions. Always careful, and only over the clothes. Never too far. Touches, teases. But maybe enough, just enough that in the afterglow of Aziraphale’s divine affection, the despairing man would know he was loved and worthy of love. Mr. Lawrence kept asking for Aziraphale’s first name, and Aziraphale always declined. He’d never really settled on what the “A” ought to stand for. Besides, if they kept it last-name-basis only, if they kept just enough distance, maybe it would be safer. 

When Aziraphale noticed a Mr. Hale making eyes at Mr. Lawrence, it was easy to redirect them, ever so slowly, to each other. It felt good. They had sparks and stars between them. Doing this miracle for Mr. Lawrence felt like an act of real love and intimacy. Maybe that was all Aziraphale needed to satisfy this hunger for affection, to find affection for those who caught his eye.

Imagine his heart, then, when a few months later Aziraphale read that Messrs. Lawrence and Hale had flung themselves into the Thames one icy morning and drowned. Chose death over a world where they could not live together.

Aziraphale gave up dancing. He would never dance again. He locked himself in his bookshop, kept it closed, wept and wept.

And so, when some decades later he stood in the rubble of a bombed out church with a bag of books, watching the demon Crowley slink away from him, and Aziraphale felt that swell of affection in his heart, he knew. He knew, and the terror set in. It was not only that any fraternization between them should not be happening at all. But Aziraphale knew that his affection was a poison, his attraction was a pit trap. He had to contain it, had to rid himself of it. If he acknowledged the feeling for what it was and let it live, surely Crowley would destroy him, or worse, he would destroy Crowley. 

But there were so many other things Aziraphale had swallowed and repressed over the years that there was no room left to hide the things he felt for Crowley.


	2. II: Empty

Humans have an impulse to either connect or repel over moments of crisis. Imagine then the bonding experience that would be thwarting the Apocalypse. Everyone did their best to stay in touch. And, sometimes, Crowley and Aziraphale would join Newt and Anathema for a spot of afternoon tea.

Anathema’s family had helped her buy Jasmine Cottage off the renters as a gift for seeing Agnes’ prophecies through to their very end. She politely accepted the gift and even more politely declined to mention a certain other gift she’d received and subsequently destroyed. 

The worry at first was that Crowley would not actually be able to visit them there. Jasmine Cottage, after all, was protected by all manner of wards against evil and dark forces. She took them down the first couple of times the angel and demon came calling, at least just for the duration of the visit. But the third time, she’d forgotten, and the worst that had happened was that Crowley complained of feeling mildly itchy, like an allergic reaction. Hardly the fire and agony and repulsion they were expecting. One of two things was true. Either the wards were so old they had lost some of their efficacy, or, more likely… they were working perfectly, and no evil had come to Jasmine Cottage.

Crowley resented the implication. He had a reputation to maintain. Sure, he’d been barred from Hell. But he liked to claim that this truly made him the truest of demons, to rebel against the rebel angels. No, he was evil. He was a wicked and cunning creature.   
  
“Macarons?” Anathema asked.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Crowley, plucking up a little pink one. 

Currently, Crowley was a bit preoccupied watching Aziraphale out the window. He and Newt were out in the front garden, talking to Adam, who had swung by to tell them about the latest story he had written. After the last time they had seen Adam, Crowley had to give Aziraphale a talk about not holding a 12-year-old to the literary and narrative standard of, say, Oscar Wilde or Samuel Beckett. So now, Aziraphale was holding a tight-lipped smile and lying that he loved it. Crowley smirked and kicked up a leg, leaning against the window.

He’d been having certain thoughts about Aziraphale over the past year. Especially now that they weren’t beholden to the head offices, they were inseparable. And Crowley loved it, more than he thought he would or once would have cared to admit. After all, even after thousands of years Aziraphale always found new ways to amuse or impress or exasperate Crowley. Someone with that much infinite variety in their soul was irreplaceable. But also, he’d never had any other friends beside Aziraphale to gauge his feelings against. Well, no time like the present.

“Anathema,” he said. “Do you think, if I asked, Aziraphale might ever consider being with me?” He drummed his fingers lightly against the glass. When no reply came he glanced back over his shoulder.

Anathema was staring at him.

“What?” Crowley said.

“Well, first of all,” said Anathema, “I think you should ask him and not me, you know him better than I ever could. Second, until the very second you asked me that question, I thought you already were together. So as an outside guess, yes, he would, based on every single interaction I have ever seen the two of you have.”

“Including the Apocalypse?”

“Especially the Apocalypse.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose a bit and frowned. Was it really that obvious? That simple? He turned to look back out the window and watched Aziraphale, full of light and love, downy soft and warm, saying his goodbyes to Adam, offering a gift of new notebooks and encouraging him even though he also deeply did not care for Adam’s stories. Crowley sighed fondly, feeling all the tension leave his body just from watching him.

Oh.

Oh, it was that obvious.

“I’m an idiot,” Crowley muttered.

Behind him, Anathema laughed.

That afternoon, when they parted ways from their friends and made their way back to the Bentley, Crowley caught a glimpse of Anathema mouthing ‘good luck’ to him and giving him a big thumbs up.

If Aziraphale noticed he made no such indication.

 

***

 

Riding in the Bentley used to scare Aziraphale. After seeing the conditions under which Crowley could drive the Bentley and still arrive safely, it worried him less. Besides, reckless as he was, being near to Crowley contrarily made him feel safer. Mostly.

“Turn! There’s a turn!” Aziraphale yelped, tensing.

“Yeah, yeah, I saw it,” Crowley drawled, taking the shoulder far sharper than was necessary.

Now on a straightaway, Aziraphale rolled his shoulders and let himself breathe. “Well… that was a lovely day, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Crowley murmured, leaned against the driver’s side door.

Looking him over, Aziraphale did the mental math on his bearing. “You seem awfully distracted. Something on your mind?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what he was expecting. There was a great deal either of them could have had on their minds, really. But what Crowley let off his chest in that moment, showing traces of vulnerability in the way his face relaxed, caught Aziraphale square in the ribs. “Angel,” he said, his voice lighter than usual, his posture unguarded. “Have you ever thought about, in all this time, have you ever considered the possibility of us being together?”

There were bells and horns of warning chorusing through Aziraphale’s mind. He chose instead to ignore them and force a smile. “Why, we have been together, haven’t we? We’ve been spending a great deal of time together.” He spread his hands meekly. “Look, we’re together right now.”

“Don’t be daft, angel, you know what I mean,” Crowley said. “Together in the romantic sense. The courtship sense. The physical sense, if you were up for that sort of thing; I know a lot of angels don’t like it. I could go with or without myself.”

The walls were coming down inside as Crowley’s words stormed Aziraphale. All the ways in which Aziraphale had kept himself guarded, they were useless now. The safest thing for him had always been to deny the very notion that he and Crowley could ever be as one. It helped him to pack up and put away those feelings and desires that tormented him. And now the path had been laid open for him. All he had to do was say yes. He could see it clearly. Agree to it, have a week of blissful passion, the relief of requited love, for maybe a week, maybe a month. Then Crowley would find something about Aziraphale that would disgust him, and he would push him away. Or Crowley would end up a smouldering mess on the bookshop floor, wiped out of existence, and it would all be Aziraphale’s fault. 

But oh, how tender and darling Crowley looked now, stealing sideward glances at Aziraphale, so full of hope. It was probably not safe for driving, but safe driving wasn’t something he was known for. What Aziraphale wouldn’t give to be coiled up in those long arms and close to him, to know the touch of his lips and to hear him speak sweet words into his ear. And all he had to say was yes. “I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t.”

Crowley’s shoulders drooped, his face falling. His eyes fixed steadily back on the road and remained. “Alright. Had to give it a shot, though.”

Aziraphale’s heart was aching. Now that the subject was broached, out in the open, there was something inside of him that felt coiled up like a spring and shaking, waiting to be released. He was so close. So close to the person he loved with all his being and the person he wanted the most. Maybe, finally, he could have everything he wanted. For just once in his life, he could have his peace. He could be his truest self. He could express his love as he desired. He could let Crowley throw him down onto that big bed of his and ravage him. Oh, no no no, musn’t think it. “I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said, trying not to sound like he was on the verge of tears. Operative term ‘trying’.

“Oh no, don’t be like that,” Crowley said, leaning his head back. “It’s fine. I promise, it’s fine. I might be a card-carrying creature of temptation but I’d never push you into something you truly didn’t want. I’m a demon, not a monster.”

_ No, tempt me _ , Aziraphale thought.  _ Push me. Pin me. Make me yours. Give me the release I’ve denied myself for thousands of years _ . He licked his lips nervously and laughed a bit more forcefully than was necessary.   
  
Crowley swerved down a main street and made toward the bookshop. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”

_ Who needs comfortable, have me now, right in the back seat of this car. Or bend me over a table in the bookshop and take me there. I want you, Crowley. I need you inside of me and all over me. I need to feel you move within me. _ “No.” Aziraphale gripped the handle of the car door tight, feeling his body warm and shift into his preferred form, already getting wet. He crossed his legs tight.   
  
“I did. You’re blushing.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” They pulled up in front of the bookshop then and Aziraphale felt relief wash over him. But not enough to wash away the stain of desire. 

“It really is okay,” Crowley said, turning to face him after parking the car. “I might sulk a bit, given to sulking as I am. But that’s nothing for you to mind. And if you need some distance from me for a bit, that’s fine. I really, truly don’t want to pressure you into anything.”

_ Put pressure on me. Press your face between my legs. I’m yours completely. _ “Oh, thank you,” said Aziraphale. “And I am flattered. I am. I just… can’t… I…”

“You don’t owe any explanation to me,” said Crowley. He smiled, ever so slightly. It was a smile that always felt like it was just for Aziraphale. “Let me know when you’re ready to do the town again?”

“You could do a lo--” He nearly choked, realizing he’d started to say the thought aloud. “Ah, I will. Thank you for the ride.” He hopped out of the car and made sure to give Crowley a friendly wave good night, just enough not to make him think he’d done some kind of offense. Then he bolted inside.

Aziraphale had not just refused to allow himself sex, whether with humans or angels. He had not let himself be sexual. Couldn’t let himself. If he let himself be as a sexual being, what was to stop him from trying it with others and hurting them? But it had been a year since Heaven had turned him away. Surely no one was watching him anymore. Surely he could have this, at least this, all to himself.

First he made sure all the doors were locked and curtains drawn, even though he would be doing this in a secluded corner in the back. Aziraphale had no bed, never really saw a need for it, but a couch would do just as nicely. He stripped as he went, shedding layers. He imagined, as he tossed his jacket aside, pulled his bow tie loose, shed his vest to the floor, that Crowley was there, unwrapping him like a present.

Was it safe to imagine him like this? Would somebody know somehow? Would he be judged accordingly?

Aziraphale dropped onto the sofa and pushed his trousers and pants down in one go. Even in the dim light of the privacy of his shop he still felt exposed. It was the most attention he’d ever paid to his manifested sex and he hadn’t even touched himself yet. He rather liked the idea of a vagina for himself, having a warm place where he could invite a lover in. Besides, he’d read an awful lot of flowery literature that had a great deal of poetic and interesting things to say about the vagina. He also hoped he’d gotten at least somewhat of an impression from them on how to use it.

First, he ran his forefingers, ever so lightly, over the clit. This alone elicited a sharp gasp from him, desperate as he was. He imagined Crowley there, looming over him, running a hand over him and hissing, “ _ let me take care of you, angel _ .”

With Crowley’s face haunting his mind’s eye, Aziraphale closed his eyes and started to rub. He made small circles around his full and eager clit, teased his fingers between the lips and explored them, just at the surface, just at the opening. Already Aziraphale was panting, his hips shifting in reflex to the sensation. His body felt like it was made of electricity. 

He pictured Crowley exploring him so carefully, so lovingly, slow at first, but faster, grinning with enthusiasm when he could get the angel to whimper--which was, Aziraphale found, an awful lot, despite his best efforts to hold the sounds back. He moved faster, pressing desperately against his own hand. He pressed down harder on the clit, pushed it back and forth, parted the labia and spread himself open. Then he hooked the fingers in. Aziraphale nearly yelped. At first it felt like a pinch, tight, uncomfortable, but he relaxed around himself. Then slowly, slowly he worked in, deeper, dragging the rest of his hand along his clitoris. “Crowley,” he whispered. He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud.

It didn’t take long, really, and if he had been with Crowley after all he might have been embarrassed how fast it was, how little it took. Of course, completely overwhelmed with need as he was, and after thousands of years of denial, how could he help himself? His mouth hung wide open in a silent scream and he shook, riding out the shockwaves of pleasure, grinding against his hand and fingers. “ _ That’s it _ ,” the Crowley in his head said sweetly. “ _ Come for me, my angel. Let it all out. _ ”

When finally it was over, Aziraphale crumpled limply on the couch, his sore hand and one leg hanging off the side. He had a lazy smile on his face, and he could almost swear he was seeing spots. Lightheaded, probably. But it had been good. Short, sweet, but good, and all his, and no one could take it away from him this time. And no one was hurt.

He could almost have drifted off into one of his rare sleeps had the smell not caught his attention. Acrid, heavy. Smoke? Was there a fire? Aziraphale pushed himself up to sit, still naked, a bit tired, and his eyes refocused.

Not spots. Ash. There was ash hanging in the air.

He hadn’t seen the bookshop fire but he still had stress dreams about it all the same. With a small gasp, he pushed himself up to his feet. He stumbled forward a few steps. Maybe he was still tired from exertion? But no, it was hard to move, like treading water, and he felt heavy. 

The earth beneath him rumbled.

There was a crack in the hardwood floor. And another. And another.

The sulfur and charcoal smell was thick now. 

Aziraphale slowly pressed a hand to his mouth in horror. No. No, they couldn’t. After every transgression of his they’d chosen to ignore or forget. After cutting him loose. After a whole year of freedom.   
  
A terrible wind billowed through the shop, and with a great crack the floor split open.

Aziraphale found himself sliding toward the opening, no matter how desperately he tried to dig in his heels. His gaze turned Heavenward and he clasped his hands together in old habit. “Please!” he cried. “I… I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have! I know Gabriel always said I shouldn’t! I was weak! I was selfish! Please, not for this.”

There was a sound that Aziraphale thought was the howling of wind that was now, more and more apparently, a chorus of screams, impossibly loud, but echoing up from an impossible depth. 

Still sliding, Aziraphale crumpled down onto his seat and dug his nails into the floor, clawing up the wood. Nothing could hold him. “Why!” he cried. “Why this? Why is this the worst thing I’ve done?” But the only thing that answered him was the screaming of the abyss, just at his feet, waiting to swallow him up. “God! God, please!”   
  
No one was listening.

The last ledge of floor that was holding him gave way.

And so the Principality Aziraphale fell.


	3. III: The Snare

Somewhere during the long, long plummet, Aziraphale fainted. At least, he must have, because he had to wake up. His whole body was aching, bruises blooming all over. The scent of mildew, fester, and burning hung in the air. Aziraphale began dry-heaving from the combined force of the stench, the horror, and the recent impact, but his body had nothing to give. And of course, he was still naked; no, why should he be spared a shred of dignity? He squinted. It was so dark here, it was hard to see much of anything. Even when he held his hands right in front of his face, he could just barely make them out. They were cut and bleeding. Some of this might be permanent, he thought. The fallen, they often had disfigurement.

Fallen.

He had Fallen.

He sobbed, once, short, strangled in his shock. His wings fanned out almost on reflex, for a desire to ascend skyward. Or, at least, they tried. There was a sharp pain, and Aziraphale shrieked and doubled over. They were broken. He sniffled, took a hand and gingerly tried to move it, only to hiss in pain again. Yes, definitely broken. But he could see, insofar as he could see down here, the truth of it written plain on him. They were black as night, as the absence of all light, the absence of Her light. He couldn’t hide from it. He buried his face in his bloody hands, weeping.

If this was what it took for him to Fall--not blasphemy, not defiance, but this--perhaps he was a destructive thing after all. This needed to happen to him before he could harm anyone, right? That was the idea? It was hard not to feel disgusting, even without the blood and the dirt and the chips of gravel that clung to his battered skin.

There was a miserable buzz as a halogen light flicked on above him. One of the bulbs burst immediately, but the other continued to cast a sickly glow over him. He dug his fingers into his face and closed his eyes tight. Not that it was unbearably bright, no, but Aziraphale did not want to see himself any clearer.

“Well,” a voice rasped behind him, giving him a start. “Can’t remember the last time we got a new arrival. Here I thought the Almighty had gone soft. Decided to give you lot all the chances we never got.”

“Maybe there’s been a mistake,” Aziraphale whispered, barely audible, and without a shred of hope.

The speaker laughed derisively at that. “Accusing Her of a mistake? Yes, you really do belong down here with us, don’t you? From the look of you, I’m guessing… lust? Yes? Well, what did you do? Seduce a priest? Chase down a girl? Get a little grabby with--?”

“I would never!” Aziraphale snapped, jerking up to glare back over his shoulder and limply hanging wing.

There was a brief still in the sticky humid air that hung the halls of Hell. The two of them stared each other down with an almost tangible disbelief. Aziraphale recognized him of course, of course, but he had at least an outside hope not to be recognized in turn. 

That hope broke along with the silence, when Hastur began to laugh, nearly screaming. “You!” he hollered, and charged forward. 

Aziraphale tried to get up to run but his aching body refused to obey him. 

Hastur’s dirty fingers dug into Aziraphale’s pale hair and jerked him up onto his knees. “You! You! It’s you! You’re Crowley’s little pet, aren’t you!?” He twisted his hand and pulled at the hair, pushing Aziraphale’s neck back into a wretched angle.

Squirming and struggling, Aziraphale tried to pull away, but it hurt. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean!” It was a pathetic misdirect and he already knew it wouldn’t work. The backhand slap across his face confirmed it.

“You are!” Hastur barked. “You are, and now that Heaven’s purged you, the first sensible decision they’ve ever made, you’re down here with us, and there’s nothing he can do about it!” Hastur’s ear-piercing cackle persisted as he grabbed Aziraphale by his broken wing and used it to drag him down the hall.

Aziraphale sobbed, reaching to try to pry his hand off, but he couldn’t quite reach due to his wingspan. He wanted to struggle, but he was in enough pain as it was. Besides, where would he go? Where  _ could _ he go? “You can’t do this,” he choked out. “You… you’re supposed to leave us alone!”

“Only thing the Prince and our Dark Lord and Master said is we’re supposed to leave  _ Crowley _ alone,” said Hastur. “You’re fair game. Especially now you’re down here. No, all bets are off, birdie.” He glanced back at Aziraphale, his face twisted in a smirk. “So, did you let him rut you? That why they threw you down? Because you put a demon inside you?”

Part of Aziraphale almost wished he had, that he’d just let Crowley have him. That he could have had that one small comfort before going. But then, he would have Fallen right in front of him, and he wouldn’t want to put Crowley through that. And now, Aziraphale had the sickening suspicion that he would never see him again. Couldn’t fathom a circumstance under which these people would let him see the surface. Not him. Not the one who halted their precious war. “No. I didn’t.”

There was a tightness in Hastur’s leer that suggested he didn’t believe that even a little bit. “Well, don’t you worry,” he said. “We’ll make sure you get well and truly fucked.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Fear came at once, like a spear that ran through his sternum and all the way down to the base of his spine. “No. No, I don’t want--”

“You’re in Hell, broken bird. No one here cares what you want.” Hastur opened up a door and threw Aziraphale inside. “Fresh meat, boys!” he called inside. “Tenderize it however you like!” There was no light cast on his face, his expression was invisible. But from the silhouette cast in the door frame, you could feel the gleeful malice. “Welcome home.” He slammed the door shut, and it was pitch black inside.

Cowering in the dark, Aziraphale tried to brace himself, hyperventilating, waiting, the feathers of his ruined wings rustling. There was a long, long pause, long enough for Aziraphale to try to convince himself that he was alone, that it was a trick.

When a large, calloused hand grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him back, Aziraphale began to scream. He would not stop screaming for a very long time.

 

***

 

Aziraphale needed his space. That was what Crowley assured himself as he sulked at his phone, waiting on a call. He didn’t want to pester him by calling first; after all, he’d seemed a bit intimidated by the advance. So he would let him decide.

Anathema had been very reassuring, telling Crowley she was sorry it didn’t work out, but she was sure that he would come back around to their friendship. Crowley certainly hoped so. It seemed like such a small thing to break a bond like theirs. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up.

Was it the physical thing? Was that what put him over? Honestly, Crowley didn’t care about that, he just wanted Aziraphale to know it was on the table, if he wanted it. Crowley had had sex a time or two, back in the old days, but demons are by and large worse at sex than you’d imagine, considering how often it was used as a source of temptation. This was probably because demons are, as a people, largely selfish, and there’s little worse than a completely selfish lover. It led Crowley to believe for a long time that perhaps it just wasn’t for him. If it was with Aziraphale though. If it was him, he thought he might like that.

Now, the actual lust demons, they were worse. The ones who specialized. Crowley tried not to talk to them if he could avoid it. He honestly thought using lust for temptations was cheap at best, appalling at worse, and some of the things they did… well, they did not bear speaking. 

Crowley shook his head and took a swig of bourbon to forget it. He mostly drank wine when he was with Aziraphale, but alone he didn’t mind a snifter of the hard stuff. 

Having Aziraphale close, that was all that was really important. Being able to think of him as his partner in more than the work sense, or as a husband? What would a marriage ceremony for them even look like? Maybe he shouldn’t dwell on it now that Aziraphale made it clear he didn’t want that, it would only make Crowley miserable. 

The thing was. The thing was, it had been three days. Now, time was they could go decades, even a century without crossing paths. But over the past century they had seen each other with increasing frequency. And the past twelve years? Inseparable. He’d grown accustomed to his presence.

“I fucked up,” Crowley told his glass.

The glass said nothing.

Giving in, Crowley tried to call. Maybe he could get the angel to confess what had upset him so, so that Crowley would know what in the world he was supposed to make up for. No answer though, bless it. Well, it wasn’t as though Aziraphale had caller ID, so that probably wasn’t personal. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he stopped by? It had been a few days. If Aziraphale threw him right out, then he’d know for sure that he’d said something wrong. Although he hoped, really hoped that he might consider talking it out instead. There was little that left Crowley feeling more raw than twisting in the wind, wondering what he did wrong.

Crowley drove down to the bookstore, even more distracted than usual. There was little regard for traffic lights or signage. He barely heard the radio, neither the talk radio nor the music that the Bentley decided it would rather be playing anyway. “ _ \--I’m far away from home, and I’ve been facing this alone, for much too long, I feel like no one ever told the truth to me-- _ ”

After mostly getting into a parking spot, a bit a skew and part sticking into the next space, Crowley hopped out and came round to the bookshop. All the curtains were pulled. Was he having himself a sulk too? Maybe he should’ve brought a gift to help smooth things over. “Angel?” he called, waving the door open. “Listen, about the other day--”

He stopped dead in his tracks as the door slammed shut behind him.

There are certain sense memories that bring one, clearly and viscerally, back to another time. They are burned into the sinuses and the cortexes. In this case, perhaps literally. Crowley’s eyes widened. He could feel the fire in his veins and the whistling wind. It was that distinct scent of ozone and char. You couldn’t forget it if you’d ever known it. It was the smell that came with the biggest change in your life. “Impossible,” Crowley hissed. He ran for the back.

Books were strewn about, having blown and rattled off shelves, some pages knocked loose. An end table was knocked over. Aziraphale’s clothes were flung about the room. But there was no Aziraphale. Only faint burn marks on the floor in a ring. Where a hole would have opened up. Crowley shook his head, pushing his hands back through his hair. “No. No, no, no.” It didn’t make any sense. Why now? Why after a year of radio silence? Why after he had gone up there and convinced them to leave him well and truly alone?

Unless. Unless Hell had decided to get back at him the only way they could. Through the person he cared about the most.

Shaking with rage and terror, Crowley slowly got out his phone. There was only one thing he could do. And maybe… maybe it was already too late. But he had to hope it wasn’t. He had to hope because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. While he couldn’t help but feel he was giving in to some kind of trap, if it was for Aziraphale, he’d step into anything they’d laid for him. 

“Hello?” Anathema answered.

“Yes, hi,” Crowley said. His voice broke. In only two syllables. A new record.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” Crowley said. He stood over Aziraphale’s vest. Had they stripped him? Why in God’s name had they stripped him? “Listen. Something’s… happened. And there’s something I have to do. Strong chance I won’t come back from it, but you know me, throwing myself headlong into hopeless odds because it’s the only thing to be done.” He knelt, picked up Aziraphale’s bowtie and ran his thumb gently over it. “I just wanted to tell someone. And to let you know, well… I’ve never had many friends. I was glad to have you as one of them, for a little while. Maybe spread that around a bit? To the other humans? I’m rubbish at goodbyes and I can’t be making all those phone calls. No time.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s happening or are you just calling to posture at me?”

Crowley took the bowtie and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Close to his heart.

“Crowley?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, voice straining. “Those bastards took Aziraphale. They took him to Hell. And I’m going to get him back. And if I can’t, well…” He trailed off because he had nothing to follow it with. There were no other options. If he couldn’t get Aziraphale back, the only thing left was destruction. Of anyone he could lay his hands on? Of himself? Hadn’t decided yet, would play it by ear.

“You know they’re just trying to create an excuse to hurt you or kill you.”

Too late, they already hurt him. “I know.”

There was a carefully measured silence. “Come here first,” she said, with a renewed urgency. 

It had been three days. They could be hurting Aziraphale. They could be killing him right now. Or, he could already be dead. So then, if it was already too late, what harm could a little side trip to Tadfield do? Especially if Anathema had anything at hand to render this less of a suicide mission.

 

***

 

Aziraphale lay on the dirty ground in the dark, panting, wheezing. His screams had given out long ago. He thought he might have hurt his throat. Something was running down his inner thighs that might be blood but he couldn’t be sure. A few times he’d feebly tried to crawl away. But then he learned how much they liked his futile attempts to get away, how much more aggressively they raped him when he showed any will at all, so he stopped. His leg might be broken, he thought, and his hips dislocated, from how far they liked to spread him, just to hurt him worse. For now they seemed to be taking a break. He hated that. Any space to recover just left him alone with his thoughts, and all his thoughts were screaming at him that he probably deserved this somehow, even if he couldn’t put his finger on why.

When someone grabbed him by the waist to force him into position, he let out a thin whimper. There was no bracing yourself for the pain. It was better to just go ragdoll, resistance brought more agony. But it would be agony nonetheless.

Had Crowley ever gone through anything like this? He prayed not. Not that anyone would ever hear his prayers again. 

The demon that loomed over him whispered in his ear, “You know, the lot of us, since you won’t talk, have been taking bets about what you possibly could’ve done that was bad enough to toss you to us. We already couldn’t believe they didn’t throw you down here after our stolen Armegeddon so that we could take care of you and Crowley both. Throwing us in the garbage always used to be their way of dealing with our type.”

Aziraphale tried to say “I’m not like you” but the only thing that came out was a quiet mumble and a thin trickle of blood. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” the demon said. “But word’s going to get to our Dark Lord soon. That we got our hands on the once-angel that stopped our war. And I think he might consider having a go at you too. Would love to see it. I bet he’d split you in half.”

A renewed horror came over Aziraphale, sobbing, with gasps that felt like gravel in his throat. He loved the world and he loved his Crowley and he believed in peace. And this was what he got for it. All because for one night he’d dared to think about having a physical love with Crowley too. Not even to dare to try it, just to think it. Now they got their opportunity to take out whatever dark retribution they wanted. He only hoped--

In an instant he could not remember what he hoped, because the demon entered him so forcefully that he almost saw light again for the first time in days, shock passing in the form of pure white across his vision. He gagged for want of screaming. As the pain coursed through his entire being, he wished he could comfort himself with thoughts of Crowley, but there was no comfort, because he could not shake the fear that somehow, his love was going to destroy Crowley after all. That it was going to bring him down here after him to die.


	4. IV: One Hand in the Fire

On the stoop of Jasmine Cottage, slumped and sullen, Crowley stood. It was not raining but he managed to look like a drowned dog nonetheless. Anathema opened the door and wordlessly ushered him in. In the kitchen, Newt was pacing, and on the counter there were all manner of ephemera laid out.

“You’ve always been able to come here,” Anathema said, “because you are not truly evil.”

“Kick me while you’re down, why don’t you,” Crowley muttered. He scratched idly at an itch on his wrist.

Anathema stood at the counter, tucking the items she’d chosen into a leather roll one by one. “But they are. The things that barely bother you, I hope, should keep them from laying a hand on you.” She placed a few crystals, a sprig of dried nettle and mugwort, a tiny jar of black salt, a vial of some potion she’d crafted from handcrafted oils, a pentagram made of twigs (funny, Crowley thought, how so many people thought that sort of thing would draw them rather than repel them). Taking a small dagger, really more of a letter opener, she handed it to Crowley handle-first. “Mind the blade,” she said. “It’s consecrated. Not sure what effect it’ll have on you. But the business end should smart.”

Crowley nodded and took it. “Probably burn, anyway.” 

“I thought to offer you the bell Shadwell gave me,” Newt said, lingering at the corner of the counter.

“Do you  _ want _ him to give away his position?” Anathema said.

Crowley held his hand out. “I’m prepared to try anything.”

With a nervous smile, Newt handed off the bell.

Crowley tucked it into his pocket with the bow tie, which dutifully muffled it.

Anathema finished tying the protection kit closed and handed it off to Crowley. “I hope this helps, I really do.”

“Can’t hurt,” said Crowley, stowing the kit inside his jacket. “Nothing could, really, I’m already about to do possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve done a lot of stupid things.” He took a deep breath, staring at the floor, past the floor. “But how could I not?”

All this time, the bond Crowley felt with Aziraphale could lead him to him without fail. He could feel where he was, anywhere on Earth. This was the first time since the End that he couldn’t feel that radiant presence anywhere. It felt like having an arm cut off. 

Anathema placed an arm on Crowley’s shoulder, drawing his attention back up to her gaze. “Bring him home,” she said.

“Not even Satan himself could stop me,” Crowley said. This was categorically false. Satan could absolutely stop him. But ideally, Crowley would not encounter him at all.

At least it got a small, hopeful smile out of Anathema, before she sent him on his way.

Hell had many portals and pathways and back doors, countless places to slip down into the dark. More, perhaps, than any mortal human would want to know about. It had been a good, long while since Crowley had made use of any of these back doors, favoring the front entrance when he could. It reduced his risk of encountering some of the more unpleasant demons, who preferred to skulk in the darker, danker pits of Hell, the parts where all the torture took place, which Crowley also didn’t care to witness. In a swamp somewhere just down the road from Tadfield, Crowley tapped his foot six times and sank beneath the earth.

A nauseating mix of relief and terror washed over Crowley when he landed in that dimly lit hallway. He could feel Aziraphale again, somewhere, down here. He was alive. But he was hurt, and he needed him. Crowley had really hoped never to have to see this place again. It was, he had to admit though, somewhat satisfying to watch some other demons nervously shy away from him when they noticed him marching down the hallway. Good, they were afraid of him. Even if it was predicated on a ruse, let them be afraid. He could make it real enough for them if he wanted to. 

There was one figure, though, that stepped out into his path and refused to budge. Crowley came to a halt a few doors down from him. “Hastur.”

Hastur’s face flickered indecisively between hateful snarl and triumphant sneer. “Bold of you to show your face around here again,” he said.

Crowley wasn’t interested in giving him room to monologue, if he so intended. “You have one chance to tell me where he is,” he said.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yeah, that’s why I fucking asked!” Crowley snapped. He closed the distance between them, drew the dagger, and pressed the flat of the blade against the side of Hastur’s face. Hastur screamed and tried to duck away, but Crowley followed him down and grabbed him by the arm to hold him there. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want to see me. You know what I am, you saw it yourself. I could destroy you if I wanted to.”

“Get it off! G-get it off!”

“Well, it’s your lucky day, Hastur. Bring me to Aziraphale, and I just might consider letting you live!”

“Fine! Just stop!”

Good as his word, Crowley withdrew the blade and tucked it into his lapel. “Good. I’m glad we could reach this agreement. Especially considering how much trouble you’re liable to be in when Beelzebub and the rest find out you’ve been exploiting loopholes in the non-involvement agreement just to get at me.”

Despite the position he was in, and the scalded welt rising on Hastur’s cheek, he looked up at Crowley and smiled. “You don’t know.” 

Caught off guard, Crowley reached to grip the dagger again, now more out of anxiety than righteous anger. “Know what?”

Hastur pushed himself to his feet and brushed himself off. “Come, Crowley. I will gladly show you to your pet.”

“He’s not my pet,” Crowley spat. “He’s his own.”

“We’ll see.”

Hastur led the way, and Crowley, trying to swallow back the hammering in his chest, followed. The screams echoing behind the doors made him feel as uncomfortable and hollow as it ever had. For the crime of being doubtful and curious and in the wrong place he’d been assigned an eternity of being party to this. Well, not anymore. He’d earned his own free will. And he’d used that free will to bring him right back here. Might be funny if it wasn’t sickening.

Having brought Crowley to a quieter wing of the torture complex, Hastur opened up a door and threw it wide. “Behold with your own eyes,” he said.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, cautiously craned his head to peer in.

At first, he had no idea what he was looking at. The light from the hallway barely illuminated the figure on the floor. They were twitching on the ground like a half crushed insect, broken black wings splayed around them. There were deep, dark bruises and dried blood around their buttocks and thighs and immediately Crowley felt a sympathetic anguish for this creature. It wasn’t until he heard the voice, and despite the labored rasp of it, he recognized it immediately. “Please,” Aziraphale whimpered. “No more. I’m sorry.”

“You see?” Hastur said, barely repressing a malicious giggle. “You see? We didn’t have to do a thing. He’s ours.”

Very slightly, Crowley nodded. Then, he turned on his heel and drove his dagger straight into Hastur’s throat. Hastur stared at him in shock before his body crumpled, then gave way to ash. It wouldn’t be a complete destruction, no, not without holy water. But the discorporation would keep him out of the way. 

Crowley dashed into the room and knelt beside the prone figure. “It’s me,” he said.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice breaking. He found the strength to lift his head to look at him. His eyes were jet black too, and brimming with tears. “Oh, you shouldn’t have come. They’ll hurt you.” It sounded like it was paining him a great deal to talk.

How badly Crowley hadn’t wanted to believe it. That Heaven wouldn’t make Aziraphale Fall after apparently deciding to leave him alone. The Falling was bad enough, Crowley knew the pain of it all too well. But that he’d gotten this reception? Guilt swam in Crowley’s gut and made him feel unsteady. “I’m going to have to pick you up to get you out. Will you be alright?”

Aziraphale whimpered a little, but nodded.

And a voice came from the shrouded dark deeper in the room and said, “And where do you suppose you’re going with my toy?”

All the muscles in Aziraphale’s body visibly tensed, and he cowered against Crowley. 

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. He reached into his jacket and plucked a vial out of the kit. Biting the cork off it, he tossed it in the direction of the sound like a grenade. A small drop that hit Crowley’s skin stung a bit. So he could only imagine what the awful demon in the dark was feeling when it started to scream. Good, let it scream. Crowley hastily gathered up Aziraphale, doing his best to be mindful of the wings, then bolted for the door. Briefly he set Aziraphale back down to scatter black salt in the doorway to impede a possible pursuit before taking off running.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale mumbled into Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

“I don’t care what upstairs says, you’ve done nothing wrong,” Crowley said. “But I’ll forgive you if that’s what you want, angel.”

“Don’t call me that,” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley flinched. “Right.”

He cradled Aziraphale close as he bolted. Under normal circumstances, he might not be able to carry him like this. But under duress, Crowley could do anything he set his mind to. And his entire mind was set to only this. 

That was when the whole world seemed to begin to rumble. An overwhelming telepathic force brought Crowley to his knees in obedient supplication. “No,” he hissed. This was it. There was no running from this. He’d been spotted, and he was going to pay for it.

And Aziraphale was babbling frantically in his ear. “Don’t let them take me back. Don’t let them keep me.”

Crowley clutched him tight. “I won’t.”

All the lights in the hallway popped and went out save for one, just overhead. A spotlight, putting them under scrutiny. The voice of Lucifer himself seemed to snarl at them from every angle. “You dare show your face around here again, traitor?”

“Only to reclaim what never should have been yours,” Crowley said, trying to sound confident. He was probably shaking too much for that. “I will see Aziraphale released from this prison. So either you can let us both go, or you can destroy us both completely. But I will not let you have him.” He closed his eyes tight, leaned his head against Aziraphale’s. He knew what the answer would be. At least they would go together, as one. And they would never be apart again. 

But nothing in Crowley’s life ever tended to go the way he expected.

“Then go,” Satan said. The lights flicked back on, one by one, lighting the way out. “And when you get back, perhaps you can inquire with the forces of Heaven, as to why they have left us to do their pitiful dirty work. It is insulting. Now get out of my sight.”

The overbearing presence of the Adversary left them, and Crowley heaved a sigh of terrified relief. But he was confused. What had a bit of that even meant?

He glanced down at Aziraphale, and immediately observed two things. One, in the stress of the moment, Aziraphale had fainted. Crowley couldn’t blame him, he’d been through so much.

But two, Aziraphale’s wings, albeit still broken, had returned to their usual shade of pearly white. With the loss of consciousness, the illusion had broken.

Meaning, he had never truly Fallen at all.

He had never Fallen, but someone had certainly wanted him to think he had.

Rising up on unsteady legs, Crowley staggered his way out of Hell with a newfound rage. They were going to get their answers.


	5. V: With Perfect Clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's been such a long time since I've been in the business of publicly posting fanfiction, and the response to this and my other work has really been a force of positivity in my life! So this is just a small note of love to all of you, my readers. Thank you very much for joining me. I hope you're all taking care of yourselves. Remember to drink water.
> 
> Now, back to business.

When he first awoke, Aziraphale braced himself for pain on instinct. He readied himself for greedy claws on his thighs, for something to enter him, or even to already be inside of him, using him. But instead, he felt a soft bed beneath him, sheets laid over him. The worst of the pain seemed to have subsided. He cracked his eyes open and got a look around. He found himself in Crowley’s flat, resting in Crowley’s bed. On a nearby dresser, his clothes were folded up and waiting for him. Was this a trick? A set staged to let him believe he was safe before telling him that no, Crowley had died at the hands of Satan himself and he would never see him again?

But no, every detail so far as he remembered it seemed right. Furthermore, on the nightstand was a box of Aziraphale’s favorite chocolates and a few selections from his Wilde collection, likely procured from the shop for him. He picked up the copy of  _ The Importance of Being Earnest _ and held it close to his chest in a near reverence. No way Hell would be able to pull off that level of attention to detail. So he really was home then. 

Aziraphale teared up in relieved disbelief and held himself. Experimentally, he flexed his wings and got a look at them. Not broken anymore, but still a bit of a pinch when they moved. And still dark as pitch, of course. A grief seized his heart at the thought of what it meant.

“You’re awake.”

Startled, Aziraphale tucked his wings away and hid them, embarrassed. Ridiculous, all things considered. 

Crowley was leaning in the doorway with this fond look. The scant sunlight that strayed through the shut blinds caught his eyes and made them glimmer gold. Aziraphale always did love it when he could see his eyes. “How are you feeling?” Crowley asked. “I healed what I could, but it’s not my strong suit.”

Aziraphale fixed an adoring smile on Crowley. He couldn’t contain himself. Never could. “You did just fine,” he said. “I… will be alright. In time.” At least he hoped. He glanced down at his book. “Will they come back for me?”

“They won’t,” Crowley said, firmly. “I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?” What if they were outraged Crowley had stolen him back? What if they needed to punish him more for his disgusting sin?

“Bit of an expert on the subject. I’m sure.” Crowley pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat. He leaned in, his eyes searching Aziraphale, curious and weary. “What happened, angel? Will you tell me?”

A sting in Aziraphale’s chest. “I told you not to call me that,” he said. “That’s not me anymore. And I… I don’t want to say.” How could he tell him? How could he say that he was cast from the grace of God for selfishly masturbating to the thought of Crowley when he’d only just rejected his advances? How humiliating, how repulsive.

Crowley sighed and set his jaw, leaned forward, arms folded over his knees. “Humor me?” he said. “I don’t want to push you but… I’m trying to sort something out.”

Aziraphale shook his head a bit. He looked Crowley over, took in the sight of him for strength. This was the man who had just literally gone through Hell and back for him. The least he could offer him in turn was an explanation. “I… gave in to a temptation I had been resisting a long time. And for that I was duly cast into the pit for my transgression.” 

“You give in to temptations all the time. I’ve seen you do it for thousands of years.”

“This was… different” Aziraphale said softly. “Worse.”

Crowley frowned, concerned. “And the Fall?”

Aziraphale cringed. He shrunk in place in the bed, hunched over, trying to disappear into himself.

“I went through it too,” Crowley said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You can talk about it.”

Aziraphale took a few deep breaths. It was okay. Crowley was there to help. And he was like him. He would understand. “Well. First there was the smell. And the ash. And this terrible wind. The… the f-floor opened up and sucked me under. And it was so very far to fall. I think I suffocated on the air. It knocked me out. When I woke, I was lying on the dirty ground, and they… they…” Aziraphale’s breathing grew harder, the sequence of events cascading through his mind.

“It’s okay, it’s alright, you don’t have to tell me that part,” Crowley assured him. He picked up a glass of wine and handed it over. “For your nerves?”

Rather than his usual sips, Aziraphale slugged it back, just needing it in his system immediately. He felt it settle into him, let the alcohol numb the jangling of his nerves. Head still tipped back, he searched for his breath and found it again. Ugly memories were pushed further back into his mind, though the ache in his legs remained. 

Once Aziraphale steadied himself, Crowley unfolded his own wings. In certain light they had an almost iridescence that Aziraphale always thought was very lovely, on those rare occasions he got them out. “Aziraphale, why do you think my wings are black?” he said.

Aziraphale squinted, not fully understanding the question. It was obvious, right? “Because of the absence of God’s Light.” He felt his own, somewhere, though not manifested right now, twitching in some plane of existence.

Crowley arched his eyebrows. “Hm, creative,” he said. “But no. They turned black when they burned. They burned because of the vortex of holy flame I fell down. Because of the pit of boiling sulfur that awaited me at the bottom. Some demons’ wings didn’t stay that way, actually. Some grew back in white after a while. Some went a dirty grey or brown. I’ve actually kept mine black on purpose, thought it suited me better. White was never my color.”

The words Crowley spoke weren’t fully getting through Aziraphale’s grief and trauma clouded thoughts yet, but they were poking holes of uncertainty.

“You see, there’s always a vortex,” Crowley said, plaininly, turning to idly toy with one of his feathers. “And there’s always the sulfur. And there’s always a pronouncement, too. Where the Archangel Michael reads you your crimes, really rubs it in. ‘Insurrection, insubordination, and blasphemy, yada yada yada, down you go.’ That was the gist of it for me. Your pronouncement, what did they tell you that you did wrong?”

Aziraphale shook his head, very slowly. His chest felt tight. “There was no… there was no such pronouncement. I just… fell.”

“Yes, you fell,” said Crowley. He looked at Aziraphale very thoughtfully. “But did you  _ Fall _ ?”

“I… I don’t…” Aziraphale frowned deeply, clutching at the sheets. “If I haven’t… then why are my…?” But this time, when he unsheathed his wings, he found that they weren’t black at all. They were white. They were his. Just like he always remembered them. For a second, but only a second, they flickered back to black with the passing of doubt in his mind, but soon returned to normal. “I don’t understand.”

“Your wings went black because you expected them to be black,” said Crowley, clutching his hands together really too tightly. Like he was trying to keep his rage closed between them. “It seems to me that someone wanted to  _ convince _ you you’d Fallen. Someone with the power to open the way to Hell if they really wanted to. Someone who knew enough about The Fall to get the broad strokes, but hadn’t experienced enough of the details firsthand to really nail it. I’ve run a few cons in my day, I know one when I see one.”

“But why?” Aziraphale choked out, a few new tears falling. Someone had done this to him on purpose? Someone had gone out of their way to visit this cruelty on him? His wings rustled softly as he shook.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Crowley said. He dismissed his wings from this reality and sat at the edge of Aziraphale’s--well, his--bed. “That’s why I want you to tell me what you think you fell for.”

A sickness settled heavy in Aziraphale’s stomach. He’d really have to tell him, then, wouldn’t he. If they wanted the truth, they would need to have the same evidence. All at once Aziraphale was starkly aware of his nudity under the sheets, and pulled them up closer to himself like armor. His wings arched protectively over his head. “Lust,” he said quietly. Crowley’s eyes widened in surprise and Aziraphale turned away in shame. He shut his eyes, and went on. “I… pleasured myself to thoughts of you. And I’m sorry, Crowley, I really am. I didn’t want to bring you any harm.”

“You haven’t harmed me, angel, not a bit,” Crowley said. His voice was so soft. There was a warmth in it, coaxing Aziraphale to open his eyes. He saw Crowley reaching for his hand and, tentatively, he took it. “You know how I feel. I told you that night. Why on Earth would you think it would hurt me that you wanted me too?”

“Because everyone I have ever desired has hurt me or died!” Aziraphale snapped. Even he was blindsided by the speaking of it, just as Crowley clearly was, because he’d never spoken the truth of it out loud. But now that it was out there in the air between them, it felt so… absurd. The idea that it was such a foregone conclusion. When it was only rattling around in his head it felt a solemn truth. But spoken? Well, a flush rose to his cheeks as he concluded, “And I… didn’t want to lose you by reciprocating it.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel guilty for the pain that crossed Crowley’s face then. “Oh, Aziraphale. I’m so sorry.” He squeezed his hand, and Aziraphale squeezed back.

Confronted with his own anxieties, Aziraphale found himself laughing at them, if weakly. “It’s foolish, isn’t it?”

“Acting based on what years of experience taught you?” Crowley said. “Sad, I guess. Not foolish. Never foolish.”

Aziraphale sniffed. He idly rubbed the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb. Basking in the connection between them for just a moment, letting it soothe the horror he’d been dragged through. “I might be convinced,” he said, “to reconsider my decision. Regarding your suggestion from the other night. About courtship. I think maybe if even the Devil didn’t kill you in association with me, then my love won’t.”

Crowley grinned, then, and spat a laugh. “Ah, yeah, I wouldn’t be opposed.” That smile faded just a bit. “But first, I think we need to talk about who might have resented your sexuality enough to do this to you. Because I’ll tell you, it wasn’t Her. I know for a fact there are a good few angels from back in the day who tried things and never did Fall with the rest of us.”

Dawn broke in Aziraphale’s mind, a red light of warning and a dreadful understanding. “Let me get dressed,” he said, “and then bring me to my shop, would you? I’ve a few… calls… to make.”

 

***

 

Sitting atop the roof above the bookshop, Aziraphale looked fondly out over Soho. The slow shuffle of traffic, the bustle of all manner of colorful people, light and lively even as the twilight rolled in. London was beautiful in the evening. Aziraphale loved it for all its fits and faults because there were so many wonderful things to see and experience. And because he’d shared it with Crowley for so long. It felt like theirs. 

And Crowley was with him, sitting beside him, a hand on Aziraphale’s knee. Aziraphale had tried to insist to Crowley that it would probably be safer for him not to be here. But Crowley insisted, had really put his foot down about being there to support him. Really it always made Aziraphale’s heart feel fond when Crowley would come to save him. This time, though, he was saving himself. Crowley was just moral support.

“Really?” The voice behind them piped up sharp and sudden. Aziraphale saw Crowley glance behind, but Aziraphale didn’t even turn. Not yet. “You know this whole non-involvement clause is supposed to go both ways, right? None of us want to hear from you.”

Aziraphale bristled at that, but put on his most pert, polite smile. “Ah, yes, the Metatron did take some convincing to put my call through. But he was most interested in my, well, extraordinary circumstances.” He stood and turned to face Gabriel.

Gabriel sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was perfectly pressed and composed as always, like a suit fresh from the dry cleaner’s, and just as empty. “And what extraordinary circumstances are those?”

“I Fell,” Aziraphale said, plainly, hands clasped together neatly in front of him.

“Oh, well, sorry to hear that,” said Gabriel, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “Can’t say I’m surprised, considering every single thing about you, and the company you keep.” He nodded towards Crowley.

Crowley gave him a humorless little wave of the fingers.

“Curious thing, though,” said Aziraphale. He took a step closer to Gabriel. “When I pressed the Metatron on it, he said the Almighty hadn’t called for any angels to Fall. Not a few nights ago. Not for centuries.”

Gabriel furrowed his brow.

While it felt a bit good to not be the most confused person in the room now, Aziraphale did worry for a moment that he had the wrong idea. So he would have to be blunt about it. “You see, right before it happened, I was exploring myself. Sensually.”

Gabriel blinked a few times in bemusement. Then, slowly, a surprised smile spread across his face. “Oh.  _ Oh. _ Was that still in effect?” He laughed and clapped his hands together, clearly pleased with himself.

Crowley sneered at him, rose to his feet beside Aziraphale. “Think you’re funny, do you?”

“Bit of magic I set up, back in the day,” Gabriel said with a shrug and a wave of the hand. “I was worried about you straying down the wrong path. So, I thought, if you tried anything, really tried it… maybe I could set up a temporary fall. Just enough to show you what you were up against. Bit of a scared straight thing. Set you back on the way of the righteous.”

“You would have me sent to Hell over this?” Aziraphale spat. His facade of pleasantry crumbled under the weight of the betrayal. There’s a certain coldness that washes over you when someone you had ever respected and trusted shows the deepest depths of who they truly are. Even if it’s after you had already written them off. Even if it’s after you thought you knew the worst of them. “I wasn’t even the only one!”

“But you are so given to indulgence!” Gabriel said. “It was only supposed to be temporary, and then I’d scoop you back up, we’d have a talk about your lechery and what could become of you, and then right as rain.” He sighed, dug his hands into his pockets. “And, might I add, I hardly think it’s  _ my _ fault that it went worse for you than it was supposed to, considering the mess you two made of things.” He approached, and placed a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, making him flinch, just a bit. “Well? What do you think? Do you feel better now? Did you get it out of your system?”

Crowley drew himself up to full height and hissed through his teeth, and even behind the shades Aziraphale could tell his eyes were growing yellower. He could always tell. He laid a gentle hand on Crowley’s arm to hold him back, even as his own heart hammered with rage and a non-zero amount of trauma anxiety. No, they were going to settle this on his terms, no one else’s.

“Funny thing about fault,” Aziraphale said. He wasn’t looking at Gabriel anymore. He was looking over his shoulder, past him. 

“Archangel Gabriel.”

Gabriel turned sharply on his heel to behold the Archangel Michael. They were aglow with God’s Light. Their eyes were aglow with their own heartbroken disappointment. Staring Gabriel down, they unfurled a scroll. “The Kingdom of Heaven brings upon you the following charges.”

“You can’t be serious,” Gabriel said with an incredulous laugh. He pressed a hand to his heart. “Michael, it’s me.”

“Heresy by way of enacting punishment in the name of God outside Her wishes.”

It was Gabriel’s turn to stagger back. Aziraphale held out a hand to steady him and smiled politely. “Careful,” he said.

“Violation of the non-involvement clause decreed by the Kingdom of Heaven with regard to the Principality Aziraphale,” Michael continued.

“Oh, come on, it was a mistake,” said Gabriel, holding his hands out in front of him. “I forgot I had set it up. Just a little trick. It was to help him.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. He pressed closer to Crowley, who put an arm around him.

“Interference with the Kingdom of Hell outside of God’s design, at risk of provoking retaliatory action.”

“This is ridiculous!” Gabriel cried. He stomped a foot down, leaned in towards them. “I’m an Archangel! Like you!”

“The wrathful emotional and psychological torture of a fellow angel,” Michael recited, “and further, accessory to the physical torture of said angel, by way of your own negligence.”

“Are you really going to take the side of the traitors over me!” Gabriel shouted, his arms spread wide.

Michael raised their voice to speak over him. “For all these crimes, for your cruel and flippant misuse of the gifts given you by the Lord, our God Almighty, you are hereby sentenced to Fall from Grace.” 

There was a terrible howl of wind and a loud rumble. Dark clouds rolled in. Humans on the street below scattered to storefronts, expecting a sudden storm. They did not see the glow of divine light overhead, simply because what was transpiring was not for them to see.

The hole that ripped open in the rooftop then was nothing like the one Aziraphale had seen before. It was perfectly circular, and it seemed to be both in and out of this world at once. Leading down it was a terrible funnel of swirling flames, the Sacred Flames of God which once lit Aziraphale’s sword. 

Gabriel folded to his knees. “Please. You can’t do this.”

“Hey, cheer up,” Crowley said, coming up from behind and patting him on the shoulder. “I mean, the actual Archangel Gabriel? That’s a big get for Hell. I bet you’ll be the life of the party. Everyone will want a piece of you. In fact…” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out what Aziraphale faintly recognized as a bell belonging to young Newton Pulsifer. Crowley had fashioned a cord around the thing, which he now hung about Gabriel’s neck. “You should be there with bells on. Just to let them know what a big star has arrived.”

Gabriel turned his eyes up to Aziraphale then. He was clawing at the rooftop, clearly already feeling the pull of the vortex. “Aziraphale, please. Please tell them I meant no harm. Tell them it was for the best. I only meant to help you.”

And Aziraphale remembered all too well cowering before him like this once. He also remembered tumbling down a hole in the world not dissimilar to this one. A hole that led him to the worst and most humiliating agony he’d ever known in his life. All because Gabriel could not abide by who Aziraphale was, at his heart. “And you can help me, my dear,” Aziraphale said, looming over him, the flickering light of the flame half-illuminating his face. “By taking down with you all the guilt and the shame you placed upon me. Because the only person here who should be disgusted with themselves is you.”

With a sharp tug of unseen force Gabriel slipped towards the edge of the vortex. He cried out, spread his wings and fluttered them in a desperate attempt to stay above. But already the tips of his feathers were singing.

Aziraphale could see Crowley tensing. Even if this time it was Gabriel’s pyre they stood before, the look of it couldn’t be good for him. This was why he had tried to tell him not to come. Aziraphale went back to his side and pulled him into his arms. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “You don’t have to look.”

Crowley laid his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder and closed his eyes, trembling slightly. 

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel cried out, desperate, but also still enraged.  He was barely clinging to the ledge, his wings aflame. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen! I am not meant to Fall!”

With the love of his life clutched to his chest, close to his heart and there to stay, Aziraphale looked down on his once superior. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s just a phase.”

And so the Archangel Gabriel Fell.


	6. VI: Scenes From The Reconstruction

Everything and nothing at all changed completely. He and Crowley still took walks in the park, dinner at the Ritz or elsewhere if they were feeling adventurous, wine at the bookshop. But now, Crowley didn’t just call him “angel”, he called him “my angel.” He called him “darling” and “my love.” There was this extra bounce in his step, and he looked around at passerby when they walked together, so proud to be seen with Aziraphale, and making sure that everyone could see. He was always quick to reach for Aziraphale’s hand now. Sometimes in quiet, still moments Crowley would lean in to gently kiss Aziraphale’s head or cheek. Eventually Aziraphale felt brave enough to start doing it himself.

There were fears and shames that lingered, would probably linger for a long time yet. Some perhaps forever. It was hard for Aziraphale to be alone in the bookshop at night, for one. He kept half expecting the floor to open up beneath him again. It made him sick. This shop was supposed to be his safe place, his joyful place. Even dying here once, during the End Times, hadn’t sullied it in quite this way. Crowley was more than happy to hang around after closing, though. And sometimes friends would come from out of town to visit.

Aziraphale hadn’t been able to tell them everything. All the children knew was that cruel people from Hell had hurt Aziraphale badly, but he was safe now. They were very kind, and kept making him Get Well arts and crafts of a sort. Drawings, popsicle stick art, a little angel figure made of sticks and chicken feathers. It melted his heart, even if they were poorly made (“they’re _children_ ,” he heard Crowley’s voice echo in his head). They were made for him. There’s a certain magic in things that were made especially for you, and Aziraphale swore that looking at them made his pain feel less.

Shadwell and Tracy knew about as much. Shadwell was very adamant about having half a mind to show the full fighting force of the Witchfinder Army to whatever evil creature had dared to harm an angel of the Lord. This despite being repeatedly assured that the matter had already been taken care of. Crowley stressed that they probably ought not to tell him in what way it had been handled, lest Shadwell try to march on Hell himself. Aziraphale couldn’t help but agree.

A much more level headed Madame Tracy simply made up a basket of scones for him and told him to ring if he ever needed anything. With a terrible sadness in her eyes, she said that she knew people who could help with “this sort of thing,” and left it at that. Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if it was so obvious, or if there was some residual telepathic connection between them from their time sharing a body. He told her he might well take her up on that someday.

Anathema and Newt knew the most. They knew he had been to Hell, they knew he was tortured there, they knew Crowley had gone down to save him, and they knew that the Archangel Gabriel was sent to Hell in his stead. Aziraphale kept trying to offer to do some sort of favor for Anathema in return for her help, but she staunchly refused, saying that his safety and his life was repayment enough. Newt eventually stopped asking what had become of his bell.

Crowley was the only one who needed to know the whole of it.

Being with him now after all he had suffered seemed surreal. It was too good. Aziraphale kept bracing himself for it all to be stolen from him. But the loss never came. Some nights he would sit up with a cocoa and a good book, Crowley coiled up against his side taking a nap and the sense of peace that overcame him would be only briefly disrupted by terror that it was about to change. Sometimes he would glance down just to make sure Crowley was still breathing. He always was.

In time he would learn to relax. In time.

And he still wanted him, still wanted him badly. But it wasn’t that simple, especially now. There was too much fear tangled up in it. But Aziraphale was determined, he was dead set not to let Gabriel take this from him. It felt as though, if Aziraphale could never have the physical love he had always wanted, he was letting him win. Maybe that was a broken way to think of it. But Aziraphale felt broken.

The first time they tried, it was a mistake. It was one of those full bottle of wine decisions, and while they responsibly sobered up before proceeding, the things Aziraphale had asked for in the heat of passion turned out not to be the things he was prepared for with a more level head. It was when Crowley was on top of him, hilt-deep with his cock inside him and slowly starting to rock that it came over Aziraphale.

He had just closed his eyes and tipped his head back to savor the closeness between them, to savor how good it felt to be full with his beloved. But in the dark, with his eyes shut, he remembered being in the dark. He remembered not having a choice. He remembered being held down, face ground into the dirty floor, while someone thrust themselves into him so hard that something tore.

Aziraphale cried out then, his whole body going rigid. “No, no, wait, stop, please, stop.” He crashed back to reality when Crowley immediately pulled out and rolled off of him.

“Okay, it’s over, you’re alright,” Crowley said, even going so far as to show where his hands were to let Aziraphale know that if he needed to, he was completely free to leave.

Aziraphale sat up, trembling, his sweat growing cold on his skin. He sobbed, once, and balled his fists. “I’m sorry.”

“I promise you don’t need to be sorry,” Crowley said. “I just want you to be safe.”

For a moment Aziraphale just took deep breaths to steady himself. He shook his head. “Crowley… if I never… if I can never… have sex… will you still want to be with me?” He looked to him, uncertain, damp-eyed. Maybe this would be it. Maybe this would be the foregone conclusion come to life. The thing that would make Crowley weary of him.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, fond and sad all at once. “The only thing that matters to me is your health and your happiness and the unique privilege of sharing your space. Sex is secondary to me. If that. The only thing about it that really interests me is having another way to be close to you. So if you don’t want that? Consider it forgotten.”

Aziraphale wanted to be grateful, really he did. He wanted to be reassured. But he couldn’t stop crying. He reached to grip Crowley’s hand tight, and Crowley laid his other hand over top. “And it doesn’t repel you that I do?”

“Not a bit. Extremely flattering, actually.”

This managed to get a chuckle out of Aziraphale, and Crowley smiled triumphantly.

“But do you? Still want it?” he went on.

Aziraphale considered this. Maybe if he let go of that desire forever, it would be safer. But on the other hand, part of him knew there would always be things that would bring him back to that awful place, whether he had sex or not. These were this scars, deep and permanent. If the wounds cut deep enough to tear away a part of himself that he’d always longed to live fully, then he knew he would always regret it. “I just need time,” he said, finally.

The second time, months and months on, they had been out plant shopping for Crowley’s flat together, where Aziraphale now more or less lived. Perhaps at some point they’d look for some more permanent arrangement, but they had forever to think about it. It all felt so delightfully domestic, helping Crowley furnish it with new greenery. While Crowley gave the new fern a lecture about knowing its place, Aziraphale fondly placed a ceramic fairy in the pot with his new aloe plant and set it up in his book nook. This one, he assured Crowley, wasn’t for shouting at.

Once they were settled in with their new housemates, Aziraphale slid up beside Crowley, wrapped his arms around him tight and rested a head on his shoulder. Crowley reached up to start stroking Aziraphale’s hair without a second thought. “My dear,” Aziraphale said softly, “I was thinking, tonight, perhaps we might try something more… physical?”

Crowley craned around to meet his eyes. “You’re ready for that?”

Aziraphale bit his lip and nodded. At least, he wanted to be ready. That was as good as the same thing, wasn’t it? Probably, deep down, he would never be truly ready. But if he wanted to claim what was his--not Crowley, but himself--he would need to be brave. He’d faced the Apocalypse, he could overcome this.

Smiling wide, Crowley took Aziraphale by the hand and coaxed him to the bedroom. “Tell me what you want, my angel.”

“You,” Aziraphale breathed, watching him, stunned. “Just you.” He could hardly think straight. He’d wanted him for so long.

“You’ll have to give me more to work with than that,” he said, starting to work his way out of his shirt. “I need to make sure you’re comfortable.” It was remarkable, actually, how fluidly he could undress, and Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat admiring the ripple of Crowley’s chest, the taper of his waste, the sheen of his skin and the places where he swore he could see traces of snakeskin underneath. Now that it didn’t feel so rushed and desperate and half-alcohol-inspired, Aziraphale could truly admire him for the work of art he was.

“I, ah. Oh. Um. Oh, you’re so beautiful.” Aziraphale wrung his hands.

“So are you.” Crowley slunk over to him and ever so gently nudged the jacket back off his shoulders. “So may I see more of you?”

Aziraphale nodded, hastily began to undo his bowtie. Blast the thing, it had never felt in the way until now. Crowley pressed in close to kiss him, firm and warm on the mouth, as he slowly, carefully worked him out of his layers.

Finally pulling his thoughts together enough, Aziraphale broke the kiss and said, “Perhaps, ah, we can do hand… things. And mouth things. At least, I can try to, I think I can pull off…”

But Crowley gently shushed him then. He ran his hands over Aziraphale’s now bare chest and leaned into whisper in his ear. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Tonight, why don’t I focus on you, my angel? You want me, I want you to have me. And I want you to have what you’ve waited for.” Crowley took his face gently between both hands and kissed him so soft and sweet. “Would you like that, love? Could I tempt you to let me take care of you?”

At that Aziraphale could only nod, dumbfounded, and any pain or fear was hidden behind a veil of all the times he’d fantasized about exactly this. Overwhelmed with affection and need, he was barely cognizant of being guided back into a chair and made to sit. When Crowley went to undo his own tight black trousers though, Aziraphale laid a hand over his and shook his head. “Leave them on?” he said. He smiled just a bit. “You look so good in them.”

Crowley grinned. “I had better, they cost enough,” he said. He kissed Aziraphale and worked off his trousers and pants instead.

“And,” Aziraphale said, “can I see your wings? I love your wings.” He was trembling a little, completely exposed now. But this time it wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.

Raven black wings fanned out behind Crowley’s back. “And yours, darling?”

“Of course, dear.” Aziraphale stretched his out and gave them a good flap to work out the cramps. They didn’t hurt anymore, and it did feel good to have them out, where he could see the glint of white in his periphery and remember who he was, and where they were.

Crowley leaned down and nuzzled at them. He kissed the arch of each wing as he ran his hand down Aziraphale’s chest and his soft belly. He slipped his hand between Aziraphale’s legs and touched him. He hesitated there. “Good?” Are you ready.

Aziraphale managed to get out an “Mm hm.” He leaned in, focusing on his attraction to drown out the part of him, much deeper, that was screaming that this was wrong, that this was a danger.

Encouraged, Crowley began to rub at Aziraphale, tender and slow, exploring him. He would find no resistance, Aziraphale was wet and ready and spread his legs wider for him. Crowley’s thumb slid back and forth over the clit while his forefingers made circles over his opening. All the while he kissed Aziraphale, claiming his lips tenderly, but leaving him breaks to breathe and to speak as he needed.

“Crowley please,” Aziraphale breathed. “Your mouth. I need it.”

Crowley rested his head against Aziraphale’s, still teasing at his labia. “You want me to go down on you, my angel?”

Aziraphale nodded, gripping the arms of the chair tight, and his hips rose into Crowley’s hand to request his presence.

Beaming, Crowley began to work his kisses down. First along the jawline, quickly sneaking his lips into the soft beneath his ear before tracing along the neck and throat. He let his lips linger at the hollow of Aziraphale’s collarbone, feeling his heavy breaths, then kissed and licked along the sternum. He lingered on the belly lovingly, before falling to his knees completely and nuzzling against the inner thigh. “Are you ready? Do you want me? Say the word.”

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. His hands fell to Crowley’s shoulders. “I want you so badly.”

Crowley nodded in understanding, and leaned in.

The first lick sent shockwaves up Aziraphale’s spine. He gasped, fingers digging into Crowley’s shoulders. He hesitated, apparently uncertain, so Aziraphale whispered, “Yes. Keep going.” He braced himself this time and savored the wet of Crowley’s tongue against him. It was remarkable how dextrous he was with it, but that stood to reason. Aziraphale whimpered softly, hips rolling with the movements of Crowley’s mouth. His wings flapped each time the pleasure mounted just a bit more, and Crowley’s own wings curled in to brush against Aziraphale’s calves.

Crowley worked his lips over and between the lips of Aziraphale’s sex. He traced figure eights over him with the very tip of his tongue. He sucked at the clit, lightly at first. But when Aziraphale choked out “more,” Crowley obliged.

There was a terror that lingered on the edges of Aziraphale’s mind. It was a paranoia that expected the ground to split open and swallow them at any moment. That insisted that his body itself was going to kill Crowley somehow. That shrieked that something was about to force its way inside him.

But Aziraphale looked down and watched Crowley work, focused and loving, intent on pleasing him and him alone. Aziraphale sighed and ran his hands through Crowley’s hair to ground himself, caressed the back of his lover’s head. “I love you,” he murmured.

Crowley came up for air just long enough to say, “I love you too,” before going back in to finish the job.

Aziraphale came for the second time, and for the first time at the hands and lips of a lover. Crowley lapped eagerly at him, letting Aziraphale ride out the waves of ecstasy in silent, open-mouthed reverence. Crowley. Crowley was his and he was Crowley’s and he felt so good and nothing and no one could take this away from him.

Finally spent, Aziraphale crumpled in the chair, eyes unfocused, wings hanging limp beside him. Crowley stood, wiped his mouth off, and kissed Aziraphale’s cheek. “How are you feeling? Are you alright?”

“Better than alright,” Aziraphale said. But he found that he was shaking, just a bit, and tearing up. It had been so good. It had been everything he wanted, so why was this still happening. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand why…”

But Crowley just caressed Aziraphale’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Residual emotions. Hormones or somelike out of control in your Earthly form. It’s normal.”

Aziraphale nodded. Of course. Hormones.

He hoped it wouldn’t always be like this. A wave of grief and terror after a wonderful time. He opened his arms to Crowley. “Hold me?”

Crowley folded his wings to his back and gathered up Aziraphale in his arms. “Maybe we can just lay together a while?” he said. “Just you and me, next to each other? While we wait for it all to subside.”

Aziraphale was nearly sobbing now. He nodded, and wrapped his arms around Crowley’s neck while he was carried to the bed. There were ghosts of unwanted touches all over his body, and echoes in his head of what a repulsive creature he was. “Tell me something good about me,” he whispered. “Remind me that I’m not all bad.”

“You’re brave,” Crowley said, without hesitation. He laid him gently down on the bed before climbing up beside him, nestled against Aziraphale’s side, in the crook of his wing. “Bravest angel I ever knew. And kind. While others were preoccupied with how to be ‘good’, you concerned yourself with how to be loving and kind. Made you the only angel worth a damn.” He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, gentle but firm. “And the things that people made of you and the things that were done to you, they’re not your fault, they’re not because of anything bad about you.”

“I hope I believe that someday,” Aziraphale said, staring up at the ceiling. But when he put his arms around Crowley he started to relax.

“I’ll believe it twice as much for both of us until then,” said Crowley.

“I… might try sleeping, for once?” said Aziraphale, glancing at him.

Crowley nodded and ran his fingers lightly through Aziraphale’s pale feathers. “Sleep,” he said. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. And that’s a promise.”

As Aziraphale drifted off to sleep, he was comforted by the smallest of surprises. He believed that. Crowley was going to be there when he woke, safe and sound. Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t be alone.


End file.
